


Yet What I Can, I Give Him

by tastingvanilla



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-03-03 01:05:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2832578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastingvanilla/pseuds/tastingvanilla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace's perspective on the events of Series 1 & 2 of Peaky Blinders. Possibly leading into an AU Series 3. I felt Grace was a little one dimensional at times, so this is my attempt at making her a more fully-rounded character. Trying to keep as true to the characters and events as possible, though there may be a little tweaking here and there. Centered mainly around Grace and Tommy's relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At the Garrison

1.

_Grace arrives at The Garrison._

Grace puts her bag down on the small table by the door and closes her umbrella. It is dripping wet and for a moment she is unsure where to put it, she doesn’t want to bring it inside with her – she believes in the influence of first impressions, and she wants hers to be perfect – but equally she doesn’t want to leave it by the door. She has very little faith in the people of Birmingham, thus far, since moving to the area, she’s had two silk scarves and a travelling hat ‘mysteriously disappear’ from where she placed them. But she supposes an umbrella is hardly worth stealing, so she props it against the doorframe, slides her arm through the handles on her bag and steps into the pub.

It is a small pub, dusty, with a stained wood floor and mismatched furniture, completely empty save for the gentleman in the middle of the room, balancing precariously on a wobbly stool. He looks every inch as dusty and dishevelled as the rest of the place. 

Grace calls out softly, afraid if she surprises the man he may fall and do himself some damage. That wouldn’t make a good first impression at all.

“I’m here about the job as a barmaid.”

The man jumps a little, but thankfully doesn’t fall, and turns to face her. He has a kindly face, his skin wrinkled and leathery. He takes one look at Grace and laughs.

“Are you mad?”

For a second she is thrown, but she recovers quickly and makes a valiant effort to remain polite. “Am I what?”

“Do you know about this place?” he asks as he steps down from the stool, wiping dusty hands on his very stained apron. 

Grace knows plenty about this place. She asked around back at the hotel and found very few people had anything positive to say about The Garrison or indeed Small Heath in general. And of course, the Inspector Campbell provided her with very detailed information about the area. But, of course, she doesn’t mention this.

“I saw it in an advertisement.”

“Job’s been filled.” 

“It was in yesterday’s newspaper.”

The gentleman smiles at her kindly. “Believe me, love, I’m doing you a favour.”

Grace supposes he probably is, but failure is not an option.

“I’m not asking for favours,” she replies pointedly, “I’m asking for employment.”

He seems to hear the slight steel to her tone, and takes a moment to study her. But his faces falls into a frown again, and Grace can see she’s getting nowhere. “You’re too… nice.”

Well that’s hardly true. 

“How would you know?”

“They’d have you up against a wall.”

She swallows the indignation in her throat.

“I have experience and references.”

The man studies her for a moment again, and then resumes wiping the table. “What part of Ireland are you from?”

Grace pauses, considering lying. Something tells her to tell the truth. Well, partially. “Galway. I’ve worked in Dublin.”

He smiles at that, and Grace thinks maybe she’s getting somewhere now. If she gets him talking, perhaps she can charm him into employing her, use her feminine guiles.

“Me mother was from Galway. You’re too pretty. I’m sorry.”

Frustration flames up inside of her, but she quells it quickly. She can’t scorn him for trying to be nice, but she doesn’t need protecting. She has proven more than once that she is capable of defending herself. She does not see how the men in Small Heath could prove more troublesome than any of the other men she’s met in her life. So she puts her bag down on a table, rolls up her sleeves and says, “Watch and listen.”

She sings a song her mother used to sing to her when she was younger, yet another tale of love and love lost, whilst gathering up dirty glasses, brushing crumbs from the table top to the floor, emptying the piss pots into the bucket at the end of the bar, putting a little dance into her steps, a little spin as she turns. She can see the man staring at her, lips a little apart, eyes a little dazed. She’s used to eliciting that look from men, and it means she’s won. So she draws her song to a close.

“In Ireland, my singing made them cry and stopped them fighting.”

She is sure he knows it’s a stretch of the truth, but he laughs anyway. “Well, I hope you know a lot of songs. I’m Harry.”

2. 

_Grace meets Tommy._

Grace has been working at The Garrison for two days. It’s not nearly as terrible as Harry would have her believe. Sure, the second floor is a brothel, which Harry vehemently denies but is certainly true; the air constantly smells of a mixture of piss and ash; and some of the customers have a tendency to put their hands where they are not welcome, but it’s nowhere near the worst place she’s ever worked. The mission at hand, however, has made little progress.

That Saturday afternoon, she can hear The Garrison before she can see it, the sound of drunken men singing lewd chants and yelling each other’s names. As she rounds the corner, she notices men spilling out of the pub into the road, some wearing blue scarves, smoking and laughing.

She asks Harry about it, once she’s pushed her way through the crowd and made it behind the bar.

“Is it always this busy on a Saturday?”

Harry looks over his shoulder at her as he pours a pint. “No, these boys are on their way to St. Andrews.”

“To pray?” She asks, momentarily baffled.

Harry laughs. “That’ll be the day. St. Andrews is a football ground. The blues are playing. That’s the forward line down by the window and believe it or not, that’s the goalie.”

Harry points a very red-faced gentleman slumped over the bar, snoring loudly. Grace suspects the blues will be conceding a lot of goals later. She pulls on her apron and has just finished tying the strings in a neat bow when a voice calls out from the other side of the serving window, “Hello?”

She looks up to the source of the voice and knows that this is _the_ Thomas Shelby everyone talks about, though he doesn’t look half as fearsome as the stories foretold. Grace is surprised to find he has a remarkably pleasant face, soft pink lips, long eyelashes and sharp cheekbones, startling blue eyes. Cold eyes though, cold and hard. There is a moment when they both stare at each other.

“I need a bottle of rum.”

He speaks with an edge to his voice that allows for no disagreement. Grace slips out of her momentary paralysis.

“A whole bottle?” she asks.

He nods, bringing a lit match up to the cigarette in his mouth. Grace follows his movements with her eyes and asks, “White rum or dark?”

 “I don’t care.”

She turns away from him, searching the bar for a full bottle. She’s uncomfortable. She can feel Thomas Shelby watching her and it makes her hands shake, ever so slightly, but still there. She feels foolish, so affected. She passes Harry, and he leans in close to her, tells her in a low voice, that whatever Tommy wants is on the house. There is an edge of fear to his voice, and it disturbs Grace. She does not want to be afraid. She finds a full bottle and brings it back to the serving window, keeping her head up, her composure cool. Her good sense tells her to act demure and unassuming, her other sense thinks, why should she? She is not afraid of anything.

She looks straight into Thomas Shelby’s eyes and tells him, “Harry said it’s on the house.”

He takes the bottle from her gazes right back at her then narrows his eyes as though deciding something. His gaze is intense. Bright, bright blue eyes. Grace doesn’t look away.

“Are you a whore?” 

Grace blinks, momentarily thrown, and Thomas Shelby continues coolly. “Cause if you’re not, you’re in the wrong place.” 

Thomas Shelby leaves. Grace slams the shutters. The bloody cheek of him! What an assuming bastard! Anger bubbles in her throat, but she has been trained well. She passes Harry again, supposing now is as good a time as any to pry information from the man.

“He’s one of them you warned me about, isn’t he?”

Harry sees the look on her face and stops, putting a hand on her shoulder. Perhaps she is not as good at hiding her emotions as she thought. “Look, Grace, you’re a friendly girl, but be careful. If I say something’s on the house, then say nothing to whoever you’re serving, alright? If they decide they want you, then there’s nothing anybody could do about it. Lucky for you, since he got back from France, Tommy doesn’t want anybody at all.” 

Grace thinks that’s probably not true. No man has come back from anywhere _that_ changed.


	2. Keeping a Professional Head

3. 

_Grace sings in The Garrison_

Grace is stood on a chair at the side of the bar. She’d been begging Harry all day to let her sing, and he’d finally conceded. Grace really does love to sing. It reminds her of a simpler time, when she’d sing in front of her father and brothers, and they’d clap and cheer and laugh when they were supposed to and sing along. But they’ve been dead a long while now. 

The crowd at The Garrison were a good bunch, singing along heartily, arms round each other, beers sloshing around. It seems to her, the men round here could do with a little cheer, and music cheers everyone up. 

Of course, the moment Thomas Shelby and the other Peaky Blinders enter the room, everyone falls silent. Except Grace. She is quite sure they are not likely to slash her with one those razor blades in their caps, so she finishes the song, looking over at Thomas Shelby as she does so. His hat is lowered over his eyes and his mouth is set in a hard line, and Grace supposes she thinks if she sings this to him, ‘the boy I love, oh the boy I love, can’t you see him standing there,’ perhaps she can melt that frozen heart, or something foolish and romantic like that. 

She watches him turn to Harry, mutter something to the man, then return his gaze to her. She stares back, considering. She cannot quite yet match the man to the stories, never witnessed this gang in all their violent glory. Thomas Shelby certainly carries himself with grace and self-assurance, and exudes a certain air of quiet menace that silences a room, but she cannot imagine him as a violent man. A vicious man. A man who orders beatings and illegal ammunitions trades. She is really not sure at all that the Peaky Blinders have anything to do with the missing guns. They have other business. Smaller business. Rival gangs, tobacco, whiskey. 

After a moment that felt like a lifetime, Tommy Shelby looks away. Him and his gang slide into the room by the door, and Grace gets off the chair, not quite sure what to do with herself. 

She feels silly. She needs to get her head in the game. Going off in ridiculous directions, thinking about this Shelby man. She needs to put her professional head on, the cool and ruthless Grace Burgess, agent of the crown, not this girl, thinking about the attentions of a beautiful man, thinking about blue eyes and sharp cheekbones. She gets back to work, tidying behind the bar, making small talk with the men drinking, all the while, formulating a report for Inspector Campbell. Yes, she is quite sure the Peaky Blinders have nothing to do with the guns. She is quite sure it is the IRA. Thomas Shelby wouldn’t involve himself in such things. She is sure he wouldn’t be so foolish.

4. 

_Graces meets Inspector Campbell._

It is nice to get out of the smog of the city. It is strange though, to suddenly find herself surrounded by fascinating works of art, clean, brightly lit rooms, fantastic sculptures. It has been only a week or so, and yet, she finds herself feeling almost an outsider in this place, that others must see her, covered in ash, the scent of beer in her hair, mud upon her shoes. Or perhaps that is just how she sees herself. An outsider here, an outsider there as well.

Inspector Campbell strides towards her, but turns away when he gets close, so as to appear interested in the sculpture in front of them. He speaks in a low voice, his thick accent so different the Brummie tongue Grace is becoming used to.

“Are you in position?” he asks.

“I am, sir.” 

“Your first impressions?”

A thousand thoughts whirl through her mind. “I am quite shocked at how these people live.”

“I interrogated the head of the Peaky Blinders. He didn’t know anything. A brute.”

Grace knows all this. Rumours spread fast around Small Heath. She had seen Arthur Shelby in The Garrison too, face black and blue. She is not sure how she feels about Thomas Shelby ending up the same way, but she reports to Campbell regardless.

“It strikes me that it isn’t Arthur who heads the Shelby family. It is the younger one, Thomas.”

Blue eyes. Soft lips. “They say he won two gallantry medals in the war.”

“You sound fascinated.” There is warning in Campbell’s tone. 

Grace moves on brusquely, not caring to divulge anymore of her thoughts for the Shelby man.   It feels odd, discussing him in this way. 

“However, my opinion has not changed. The bookmaker gangs have other business and the Communists are too weak to have planned this. I believe the guns were taken by the IRA.”

“You must not let your personal history cloud your judgement.”

A flurry of rage sweeps through her. How dare he question her professional judgement? This man who knows her hardly at all. Pretends to know her. She does not care for Inspector Campbell at all, but circumstance threw them together and she must deal with him until the mission is complete. Show no vulnerability. That is how she was trained. 

“What history? That the IRA murdered my father, will not affect my judgement.”

She walks around Campbell, onto the next sculpture. She can feel him staring at her, a moment too long, her skin itches, anger still bubbles beneath the surface. She clutches onto her bag tighter, fingernails digging into the leather.

Campbell follows her and slips a scrap of paper into her hand. His fingertips are rough against her palm. The motion is an ounce too forceful and Grace can tell she has irritated him as he has irritated her. Grace slides the paper into her bag without looking at it.

“If you see any guns, check the serial numbers against that list.”

She nods. She has understood. Campbell loiters. Grace looks up at him coolly, eyes questioning, was there anything else?

“Your father was the finest officer I ever worked with. I know he would be very proud of you.”

She nods again, silent, and walks away. 

5.

_Grace and Tommy talk about horses._

Grace watches the horse bucking, Tommy soothing it. He seems like a gentle man. Hands fluttering over the horse, stroking. She wonders what he is whispering, if perhaps he uses these same skills on his women, charming them, luring them into a false sense of security. She wonders if he makes the horse feel as he makes men feel. Does the horse bow to his authority as everyone else does? Grace thinks she should make conversation. She needs to learn more about the man, and what better way to do it than to talk to him directly? Go straight to the source. 

What should she say though? She imagines simply saying ‘hello,’ making small talk. But it doesn’t seem right. He is a King in these streets, it seems too trivial. She doesn’t suppose he’s particularly interested in the unseasonably warm weather, or how the price of bread keeps on rising. She gazes over a slop bucket. It needs emptying. It seems like a good idea.

She throws. The mess splashes, but misses the shine of Thomas Shelby’s boots by an inch. A glance up at his stoic face, and Grace suddenly realises what a ridiculous scene this is, what a ridiculous way to draw a man into conversation. 

“I’m so sorry, Mr Shelby.” 

His face remains the same. A void, a blank expanse, giving away nothing, but probably hiding a thousand thoughts.

“I’m Grace, by the way.”

“I know who you are,” he replies.

He almost smiles. Grace swells with confidence. She is a woman, an attractive woman, quite capable of talking to men, quite capable of capturing their attentions.

“What’s his name?” She looks over at the horse. It’s a lovely one, murky white with soft spots, though Grace doesn’t care much for the creatures.

“He doesn’t have a name.”

“Poor boy deserves a name.” 

“You have something to say to me?” Thomas Shelby asks and Grace supposes she does. 

“The other night, you came into the pub and I was singing. You said singing wasn’t allowed. I’d like there to be one night a week where there’s singing. I think it would be good for everyone. Saturday nights. Harry was too afraid to ask you.”

“But you’re not?” Thomas Shelby’s gaze fixes on hers. It is like the gaze of God and Grace finds herself, in that fleeting moment, very aware of every inch of herself, every speck of ash in the air, each breath leaving Tommy Shelby’s lips.

“I am,” she’s not sure if she’s lying here, “but I love to sing.”

And that cold gaze creases into something softer, something like a face a normal man would pull. A man smiling at a lady. “You sound like one of those rich girls that come over from Dublin for the races. Do you like horses? How do you fancy earning some extra money?”

She is, of course, not interested in the money. She has got quite the income already, living this double life. She watches him hop back onto the horse with easy grace.

“Doing what?”

“Dig out a nice dress, I want to take you to the races.” And Thomas Shelby gallops away, like a knight riding through peasants. Grace wonders how close she will have to get to Tommy Shelby to find the guns. How close it would be sensible to get. She is quite sure she's gone too far already.


	3. Mens Attentions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tommy Shelby is the beginning, middle and end of your mission.

6.

_At The Opera_

She had received some odd looks in the lobby, moving past the women in their finest dresses and the men all trussed up in their crisp, black suits. She had tugged at the hem of her jacket, straightened her blouse irritably. She felt out of place here, felt uncomfortable. She felt the eyes of Birmingham’s richest, silently judging her, her faded pink suit, her scuffed bag. She was not entirely sure she didn’t still smell of ash and beer, the scents never seem to leave her, surrounding her, always in her nose. Once upon a time, this could have been her life, attending the opera, courting, sipping on champagne. Now it is a far flung dream. A dream? Perhaps not. She does not desire this anymore.

Her head is pounding as she slips into the booth. Every note the singer hits drills into her head, shaking and reverberating, making her vision swim. She would like nothing better than to return to her living rooms and sleep for several days. 

Campbell turns to her sharply as she sits beside him. He seems agitated, more so than usual, and she supposes his meeting with Tommy Shelby did not go as planned for him. She can’t say she’s surprised, thus far, Campbell has underestimated Tommy Shelby in a way Grace feel is rather foolish, and arrogant of him. 

“Grace, I have new information. Thomas Shelby is now the beginning, middle and end of your mission.”

She considers this a moment. Presumably the Peaky Blinders have the guns. Tommy is a smart man, Grace can certainly see him manoeuvring possession of them. What does he plan to do with them though? What does he gain by having ownership of them? Judging by Campbell’s irritation, whatever Tommy’s will, it has been agreed upon. She tries to piece together how the I.R.A may still be involved. They have to be, somehow.

“So what shall I do?”

Campbell stares long and hard at her, but Grace keeps her eyes upon the singers below. “It hurts me as much as it would a father sending his own daughter into a whorehouse, but… No matter how repugnant it may be, you must do everything you can to get close to him, and find out where the guns are hidden.”

She almost laughs. Use your womanly ways, Grace. What skill is there in this? What training needed? Bat your eyelashes at the man and hope he will reveal his most important secret. Campbell is a fool. Thomas Shelby is not a man who will be tricked so easily. 

Campbell watches her steadily. “Of course, when I say everything, I don’t mean…”

Grace gathers her thoughts in a neat little bundle, ties it up with string, looks nonchalantly over at him. She is becoming quite the master at this concealing, hiding, masking of thoughts. 

She snaps impatiently, “You underestimate me in every way.”

They stare at each other. Grace dares him to say anything further. Campbell shifts in his seat.

“Here.”

Grace lifts the newspaper and glimpses at the weapon beneath. She brushes her fingers over the cold metal. She will feel better protected now, in Small Heath, with this on her side. She prays she never has to use it though.

“You are now active in a military operation, on behalf on the crown. I wish to God circumstance hadn’t chosen you.” 

Grace thinks God has nothing to do with any of this. This is a man’s mess and it is her task to help clean it up.

“It’s what I’m trained for. I’m late for my shift.” She gets up quickly, ignores her swimming vision as her head throbs with the movement. Campbell suddenly grabs her arm as she shuffles past.

“Grace… my heart is with you.” His hand strokes down her arm, rough fingertips scraping her skin. She silently, forcefully, pulls away from his grip. His words weigh heavy, but she refuses to think any further on them.

 

7.

_Grace sings for Tommy_

It had been a quiet night, and Grace is glad. Her headache had cleared, but she was still tired, down to her bones tired. She couldn’t help glancing at her bag, every so often, thinking about the weapon inside, what situations she is getting herself in, when and if she will have to use it. 

There is not much left to do at The Garrison, a few glasses to be cleaned, the slop buckets to be thrown out. She goes about her tasks, quietly, glad for a moment of rest, of silence, where she can be alone with her thoughts. It’s nice to have a moment of normality, where she does not need to be calculating, formulating, planning her next move, her next lie to tell. She puts a cigarette in her mouth, goes to light it, when there’s a loud, impatient knock on the door.

Her moment of peace is dashed.

“We’re closed, Mr Shelby.”

“Just get me a drink.” His tone brooks no argument and he brushes past her, over to the bar. 

Tommy looks as tired as Grace feels, clothes soaked through from the rain, eyes heavy, mouth set in a hard line. Grace has never been particularly good at reading people, but this man, in front of her, she can read like a book. She can feel the melancholy rolling off him in waves, the turbulence he holds in his head, that quiet sadness behind his steely exterior. She pulls a bottle of whiskey off the shelf, passes it to him.

“Should I leave you alone?” She’s sure he will say no. And he does.

“I cam here for company. Where’s Harry?”

She watches him pour himself a glass and gulp it down in one. The man can take his liquor. He pours another one as she sits beside him. 

“He took the night off. He went to the pictures.”

She wonders briefly why he came here, instead of home, to his family. What comfort can he get here that he cannot get elsewhere? Grace tries to keep the conversation light, wants to ease that pain away from his face.

“How’s your beautiful horse?”

There’s a long silence. Tommy stares at her. Grace holds his gaze, concentrating on her breathing, concentrating on showing no weakness.

“I just put a bullet in his head.” His voice is steady and his face hard.

Grace understands his sadness now.

“Was he lame?”

“He looked at me the wrong way. It’s not a good idea to look at Thomas Shelby in the wrong way.”

Grace is quite certain that is true, but she can sense the genuine remorse behind his words. Sadness is not a look that befits a man like Tommy Shelby. It makes Grace nervous, uncomfortable. She wonders what would happen to her if she looked at him the wrong way. Would she end up with a bullet in her head? Would she be able to put one into him, before he had the chance to do so to her? 

“What a waste,” she replies, simply.

“Yeah. A waste is what it is.” Grace watches him finish another glass, fingers fluttering around her own. Silence stretches between them again. “You know, in France… in France, I got used to seeing men die. I never got used to seeing horses die. They die badly.”

Grace wonders how she suddenly became this mans confidant. Why he is telling her these things, why her, why here? He silently offers her a cigarette and she takes it, leans in close when he lights a match. His fingers are long and slim, pale, slightly shaking. She inhales and exhales the smoke, calms her heart. She has a thousand questions running through her head, a thousand thoughts. She wants to ask him what he was like before the war, what kind of man he was. She can’t imagine him as a normal man, he could never be normal. Thomas Shelby was surely always destined for great things.

“I dug out a dress like you asked. Is it Cheltenham you’re talking about?”

“Cheltenham’s a grand affair, is it not? The King will be there.” 

“King George?” Grace exclaims.

“No, King Billy Kimber and all his men.”

“And what must I do?”

“For two pounds you’ll do whatever I ask you.”

Grace senses some light-heartedness in his words, and a boldness comes over her. She knocks back her drink casually, places the glass carefully down on the table, picks up her cigarette again.

“I want three.”

Tommy laughs, just a little one, a puff of air. Grace wants more. She is so close to eliciting a smile from him.

“If I’m meeting a king, I don’t want to be wearing a cheap dress. And I asked you to let me sing, that’s part of the deal now too.” 

“Since when?”

“Since you nearly smiled. Saturday nights. Open and easy. Everyone gets to sing their song, just like we did in Dublin.”

That half smile vanishes in an instant and Grace can see she has something wrong. 

“You never worked in Dublin, so don’t lie to me. I asked around about that pub you said you used to work in. I have friends over there. No one has heard of you.”

Grace feels the warning in his words, sneaking down her spine, freezing her. What will he do with her lie? Is her cover blown? Grace’s heart beats fast and strong in her chest, but she doesn’t look away, drawn into that cold gaze. She will see this through. She opens her mouth to deny it, to layer more lies upon her lies, to repair this, but Tommy talks first.

“My guess is, you’re a girl from a good family, who got herself pregnant.”

It is certainly not a lie she would have chosen, but she supposes it is as good as any. Let the man believe want he wants to believe. 

“If that’s true, it’s not something I want known,” she says carefully, not quite confirming, not quite denying. 

“And bringing a child into the world alone ruined your life, right?”

Grace nods, barely, just a fraction of a movement, but it seems to satisfy Tommy.

“So I’m right and Polly is wrong.”

“Right about what?” She asks him, genuine confusion. 

He dismisses her. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It looks like it matters to you.”

“Family business.” His tone warns he wants to talk no further on the matter, and Grace allows it. 

There’s a nervousness now, though, inside her, that perhaps Tommy can read her just as she reads him. He can see her for what she really is, a fake, a fraud, leading this double life. It won’t be long before he realises what she’s doing here, and then what will happen? Would he kill her?

“You won’t tell anybody my secret?”

Tommy laughs, derisively, “Do you think I tell people things?”

Grace thinks, well, you’ve told me things. And the mood lightens. Tommy claps his hands together, sits up in his chair.

“So what do you sing?

Grace smiles, glad to escaped his scrutiny. “Anything you want.”

“Right, get on a chair.”

Grace complies. “Happy or sad?”

Tommy pauses, lost in thoughts for a moment. “Sad.”

“Okay, but I warn you, I’ll break your heart.”

“Already broken.”

And Grace believes him, standing there, singing her song of loss. He looks wrecked, a man so wrapped in misery he can’t stand to look at her. She almost feels guilty, being here, in this mission intended to bring about his demise. It is easier for her if she sees things in black and white, but Tommy Shelby, he is wrapped in grey. Grace doesn’t know what to do with it.

“…And her hair, it hung over her shoulder. Tied up with a black velvet band.”

They stay in silence for a long time, Grace standing on the chair, Tommy staring at the floor. She wants to put her hand upon his arm, comfort him. But she just can’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. All the King's Horses and All the King's Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy Kimber comes to town, small musings.

7. 

_Billy Kimber comes to town._

It’s not strange between them as Grace thought it would be. Rather, Tommy seems to have accepted Grace as something more than a stranger. Grace wouldn’t go so far as to say friend, but there is a warmth in how he responds to her now and that can only be a good thing. For the mission, that is. Of course. To get close to this man.

The men are singing raucously, spirits are high in The Garrison tonight. Grace brings through the tray of beers to the Shelby brothers. They’re playing cards in the small room, here for pleasure rather than business. A rarity it seems, for them. 

“Did you want whiskey as well?”

“No, just beer will do.” Grace looks to Tommy, through her hair, smiles at him, without thought. No ulterior motives, just a smile. She can feel John and Arthur watching them, joking about the singing, but calculating, weighing up the situation. Did she reveal too much? She leaves the men in peace, humming along to the song as she goes about her duties. 

In little moments like this, it’s easy to forget her life outside the Garrison. She can just be Grace the bar girl, laughing with the punters, cleaning glasses, bartering with the delivery man, day-dreaming about the mysterious Thomas Shelby. It could be nice, she thinks, to be that Grace, a simple girl, no cares in the world, making an honest living. 

“Holy shit, it’s Billy Kimber.” 

Graces snaps to attention at Harry’s words. The bar goes silent in an instant.

King Billy Kimber. He saunters into the Garrison as though he believes it true, with slicked-back hair and a pin-striped suit, surrounded by his men, clearly armed. Grace glimpses to her purse beneath the bar. She is comforted knowing her weapon is so close, confident she will be able to defend herself if this situation escalates. 

“Is there any man here named Shelby?”

Billy Kimber’s voice jars against the silence of the room, a harsh, nasal, cockney accent. Grace thinks it makes him sound a little like a half-wit. Of course, no-one responds. Kimber stares round the room, then in one quick motion, pulls out his gun and shoots at the ceiling. The sound is deafening, it jolts up Grace’s spine, makes her skin shiver. A flash of something horrid. Her fingers twitch out to reach for her purse, mind racing, considering exit routes, whether there are words to diffuse the situation, or is it best to just remain silent? Her fingers fold back to her palm as Tommy appears in the doorway behind Billy Kimber, face expressionless, a smoking cigarette hanging between his fingers.

Grace admires how composed Tommy is. All the time. A placid lake runs deep. What goes through his head?

“Better get these men a drink,” Tommy nods towards the bar. “Everyone else, go home.”

The men of Small Heath don’t need telling twice. They flood out into the night, knocking chairs, tipping glasses. The cool night air rushes in as they leave. Grace turns to ask Harry what he wishes her to do, but finds he is no longer beside her. She supposes he’s slunk away through the back door. Well, he’s certainly not the most courageous man Grace has come across. She supposes she should stay, close up, clean, tidy, fade into the background so the men forget she is there. Just a barmaid, no threat from her. But she will be listening to every word they say. 

She places the whiskey and glasses on the table. They watch her in silence. She catches Tommy’s eye. There is no warmth there, not like earlier. She has sunk to nothing. She wonders if perhaps this is a front for Kimber. Not that the two have anything to hide.

“You, go home.”

“But, Mr Fenton said…” she begins, ready to justify her presence. 

“I said, go home.”

Grace is getting tired of being ordered around by Thomas Shelby, but she has no choice but to acquiesce. On her way out she hears Kimber break his silence.

“I’ve never approved of women in pubs, but when they look like that…”

Grace is sure Tommy’s plan for Kimber will not end well for him. She finds she doesn’t particularly care. 

 

8. 

_Musings_

It is a beautiful day, even through the smog of Birmingham. The sun streaks through the misted windows of the Garrison and Grace is glad she is only working a morning shift. Perhaps she can take a moment to herself and enjoy the weather. Go for a walk round the park, get an ice-cream. 

Tommy breezes through the door as Grace is lost in thought. His small knock on the bar makes her jump a little, and Grace is sure she see’s a small smirk ghost across his face at her start. Warmth gathers in her belly, a giddy embarrassment. 

“Give me a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, please.”

“Scotch or Irish?”

“Irish.” Of course.

As Grace turns to the bottles, her mind conjures and rejects endless possibilities for striking a conversation. She is finding it is becomingly increasingly like this, when Tommy is near, and she is not sure how much of her determination to get him to talk is for the mission, and how much is just to tease a smile from his lips. Grace has never been in love. No. Wait. Grace has never been in love, and certainly is not close to the thing at present. She is behaving like a silly child, full of quite frankly embarrassing and ridiculous musings. She thinks on Billy Kimber in the Garrison a few days past. How Tommy had dismissed her like a stranger. What he expects of her at the races.

“I’ve decided not to go to the races.” She watches his face carefully. “Not unless you give me two pounds, ten shillings for the dress.” She pushes the bottle and glasses towards him.  She is a little surprised to find her statement makes Tommy smile.

“I’ve already given you three.”

“Well how much do you pay for your suits?” She prods, actually a little curious. His suits are perhaps a little toward a passing trend, but she can’t deny they are sharply cut and made of fine fabric. Just how much money does he have floating around? The information could be useful to Campbell perhaps.

“Oh, I don’t pay for them. My suits are on the house, or the house burns down.”

She’s not sure if he’s joking. She suspects he is, but it’s strange, a dark humour. She doesn't think it's meant to be understood by her. A joke for himself. Tommy lives inside his own head too much, she thinks.

“So you want me to go looking like a flower girl?” 

His attentions have turned though, to the two men she doesn’t recognise, standing in the doorway. Tommy picks up the bottle and glasses, throws a look back to her and says, “What I want makes no difference... it’s not me you’re dressing up for.”

Grace thinks it most certainly is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's taken so long, and it's a little short. I'm in my final year of university so I have a lot of projects going on at the moment and unfortunately this takes backseat against all of them. More should be up fairly soon :) Thank you for reading!!


	5. The Luck of the Irish 1/2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grace encounters her countrymen at the Garrison, and decides to take the mission into her own hands. Part 1/2  
> (Edited this chapter, as I felt the last version was a bit crap!)

_The Luck of the Irish_

  
Instinct tells Grace that the men Tommy had ushered in the room by the door were not old pals, here for leisure. Though, she supposes, Tommy is hardly the type to have a casual pint with chums. On detection of the men’s Irish accents, Grace is certain. They are here on business.

  
The Garrison is quiet, a few regulars having a chat in the corner. No-one else has noticed the evil that has entered the pub. The Irish Republican Army. They must be. She thinks, simultaneously, who else would Tommy Shelby be making business with, and what is Tommy doing making business with such scum?

  
Of course, it has to be the guns. But who is selling to who? Perhaps the IRA are looking for a quick buck. Sell them off to the highest bidder. Perhaps Tommy has the guns. Perhaps Tommy is planning to arm the Irish Republican Army. The thought leaves a sour taste in Grace’s mouth. Would Tommy stoop so low?

  
She thinks for a moment on how to enter the room. There is already a bottle of whiskey in there with them. Could she offer to wipe the table, refill their glasses? No excuse would fly, weeks of respecting the private sanctity of that front room, it would be too obvious she were after something. Besides, Tommy would fall silent at her appearance, he is not a man to forget she is there and let his mouth run.

  
The low-lying anger that had begun to simmer on hearing Irish accents in the Garrison, begins to bubble over. She had thought better of Tommy. Foolishly. She was sure his business had nothing to do with the Irish. Just small-time criminals, dreaming big. Perhaps she had thought he had some kind of moral code. Some kind of standards with who he dealt with. Foolish. A small-time crook, dreaming big, will do anything to get up the ladder.

  
She steps closer to the boarded window, quietly, soft feet, and leans in close to try and hear. The other men in the pub continue to pay no attention.

  
Grace can hear very little. Muffled voices. She catches the odd word. Money. Factory. She is in no doubt they are discussing the guns. But who is selling to who? If she could just push the panels apart, just a little, she could hear clearer, she could get those names, those locations, but the wood creaks so loud. She’s a bundle of white-hot rage, hidden beneath a cool exterior, expressionless, almost serene, but spitting inside with anger at herself, for being such a shite spy. Such an opportunity wasted, when then – voices raise.

  
“You think we’re joking? Am I laughing?”

  
“Oh son, I see sad mem’ries view, of far off distant days… When being just a boy like you, I joined the IRA.”

  
There is a moment of silence. Grace is fuming. Her suspicions confirmed. The I R Fucking A. Thomas fucking Shelby, in bed with pure evil.

  
Someone claps. She thinks she hears Tommy talk, then chairs scraping against the cold, wood floor. Grace slides away, picking up the washcloth, a picture of innocence, minding her own business. Quiet and unassuming.

  
The door flies open. The Garrison falls quiet as the Irishmen scramble out, and Tommy saunters towards her, at the bar, a smile wide on his face, glasses in hand.  
She feels no warmth toward him today. Just anger. But she is a spy, and besides, a woman, she knows how to mask anger.

  
“I thought you only allowed singing on a Saturday?”

  
“Whiskey is good proofing water. It tells you who’s real and who isn’t.”

  
She muses over this statement for a moment. In this life, it is impossible to tell who is real and who isn’t, whiskey or not. She wonders how much whiskey it would take for her to spill her truth. How much whiskey it would take for Tommy to spill his truths.

  
She tries to keep her questioning casual. “And what did my countrymen want?”

  
“They’re nobodies. They drink at the Black Swan in Sparkbrook. They’re only rebels because they like the songs.”

  
Tommy speaks lightly, a rare smile still playing at his lips. Grace’s anger at him cools, just a little. She questions, needing to know, more for herself than for the mission. She questions a little too earnestly, too obvious.

  
“You have sympathies with them?”

  
His expression softens further. “I have no sympathies of any description.”

  
And she believes him. Though she could not say why. A look into his blue eyes, the smell of him, feeling his presence in the air around her, it clouds her judgment. Confuses things. The situation is confused, she cannot make sense of it. If the IRA have the guns, what would they need from Tommy?

  
She probes a little further. “Their accents were so thick, it’s a wonder you could understand them. Next time, I could translate.”

  
Tommy looks at her openly, amused. “You’d work for me?” She thinks he might be teasing. A smile plays at her mouth, involuntary.

“I thought I already was.”

  
“So you are coming to the races.”

Grace thinks he knows she always was. She is certain he can see through her bravado, through the flirtations, but she isn’t quite sure what he sees beneath, the ‘real’ Grace he must have created in his head. His own form of truth. What is she in his head? A rich girl who got pregnant and ran away. She’d like to be something a bit more impressive than that.

  
She watches him pull money out of his pocket, put it down carefully on the bar. “Two pounds, ten shillings.” Grace slides the money closer to her, silently, eyes still on Tommy. “Buy something red. To match his handkerchief.”

  
For a second she is thrown, mind elsewhere. “Whose handkerchief?” she calls after him, but thinks she knows the answer. Billy Kimber. Another piece of the puzzle that doesn’t quite fit into place.

  
Grace stares for a long time at the door where Tommy left. The Black Swan is not so far away. She is sure a visit would resolve some questions, clarify some issues. Perhaps she can go undercover, try to blend in with the locals, have a drink or two, scope out some information. The opportunity must be seized, and quickly. The threat of the IRA must be eliminated.

  
And besides, she is armed now. She can protect herself should needs be.

**Author's Note:**

> Dialogue, characters, etc, belongs to Steven Knight and the BBC and whoever else!
> 
> Thank you for reading :))
> 
> (Let me know if you spot any mistakes and I'll do my best to rectify them)


End file.
